


Careful Constructs

by ponticle



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Committed Polyamory, Developing Relationship, F/F, F/M, From Sex to Love, Jealousy, Legal Drama, Mistaken Identity, Personal Growth, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Random Encounters, Rough Sex, Sex, i'm losing my edge, that ended in a place i didn't expect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-03-30 22:50:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13961742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponticle/pseuds/ponticle
Summary: Isabela is one of the youngest partners in her legal firm's history, and although she has had to make sacrifices to get where she is, everything is going well--until she meets Morrigan.ORWhen sex gives way to feelings in awhollyinconvenient way.





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

**Today**

“Get on your knees,” demands Isabela. She hears the words as if someone _else_ said them, exactly mimicking her voice. She wonders transiently if she’s gone too far, but the sharp inhalation and quiver of Morrigan’s lips is a sign: she hit the mark.

Morrigan trembles in front of her, the thin lines of her shoulder and sharpness of her jaw in silhouette in front of the window of this anonymous hotel suite—the place where all of this began. Isabela finds her fingers curling across the keen edge of one scapula—gently, softly… then she remembers: this is dangerous--or the way she feels about Morrigan is; she shouldn’t relax. She straightens away from the wall behind her back and clenches her fists at her sides just as Morrigan slides a hand up the inside of her thigh.

“Fuck,” hisses Isabela. “Just like that…”

Morrigan’s fingers bite uselessly into Isabela’s skin, frustration apparent. Even though they haven't known each other long, Isabela knows, without a doubt, that Morrigan won’t make a move until Isabela says so. She smiles to herself—power has a way of corrupting, but Isabela doesn’t mind this particular pestilence.

“I bet you’re dripping,” says Isabela. Her voice comes out strong and even, although her mind is racing. “I bet you wish I’d throw you backward onto that bed right now.”

Morrigan shivers; she’s close enough that Isabela feels her breath over a patch of partially exposed skin where her skirt is rucked up. It sends a tingling sensation through her body, but she flexes the muscles of her thighs and manages to stay in control.

“But you’re going to have to prove you _deserve_ it first,” adds Isabela. She wraps her fingers into the hair at Morrigan’s nape.

Morrigan whimpers, but doesn’t say anything.

“Did you _hear_ me?” Isabela yanks on Morrigan’s hair, forcing eye contact. “You’re going to stay here, showing me what you’re worth until I say so.”

Morrigan nods, her mouth vaguely open.

“And then… if you’re good… I’m going to shove you onto that bed and make you come until it hurts.”

Morrigan gasps and nods; swallows a groan.

In reality, though, the words hurt more than the concomitance of the rest of this will… after all, Morrigan is _leaving_ tomorrow and there’s nothing Isabela can do about it.

 

* * *

 

**Last Month**

 

Isabela arrives at work late, in the middle of a rainstorm, with a thermos of burnt coffee and a stack of wet papers. It’s one of those days where she’d rather be in bed, but based on what she does—on the pressure she’s always under—she can’t take any days off.

“Hey, Merrill,” she says at the threshold.

“Oh, creators…” Merrill rushes around the reception desk and grabs the stack of papers from Isabela’s hand. “What happened to you?”

Isabela smirks. “It’s raining, kitten.”

Merrill stops short, apparently thinking. “Oh…” She smiles and puts the papers on her desk. “Don’t worry; I’ll sort these out for you.”

“Thanks, Mer…” says Isabela. “I appreciate it. Did I get any messages?”

Merrill launches into a list of names and numbers, none of which sound particularly important, until the end.

“Wait… what was that last one?” interrupts Isabela.

“I said the board of directors has already sent a representative,” repeats Merrill. “She’s in your office.”

“What’s her name?”

“Morrigan?” says Merrill. She doesn’t sound sure.

“Is that a last name or a first name?” asks Isabela.

“I think it’s an _only_ —like Anders or something…” Merrill laughs. They give their friend Anders a lot of shit about his assumed identity… _artists_. But here, in the world of mergers and acquisitions, depositions and hearings, it’s much less common. _Most_ people even have a middle initial they tout as important _and_ a roman numeral, if they’re especially fancy. Isabela doesn’t, though. In fact, the name she goes by isn’t even the one she was born with. _Isabela Moreau_ is a construct.

...a construct that she _uses_ as she straightens her shoulders, smooths her hair, and rounds the corner into her office.

“Good luck!” Merrill stage whispers somewhere in the periphery.

Isabela doesn’t need luck, though—she has _bravery_.

 

“Good morning,” says Isabela. She speaks before she really _sees_ the person sitting in her office. She puts her things down on a couch in the corner and turns, only to discover that this Morrigan-person is sitting in Isabela’s own chair.

“If this tardiness is indicative of the way your branch does business, we might be in for some changes,” says Morrigan.

Isabela manages to smile, as if she thinks it’s a hilarious joke, but the room feels rather cold. And… she’s not sure what to _do_ now. Her seat is taken. Surely, sitting on the _other_ side of her desk doesn’t send the right message. On the other hand, this woman is—for all intents and purposes—her _boss_. The board governs all the firm’s activities… so… with a fair amount of trepidation, she sits.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” says Isabela. “What can I do for you this morning?”

Morrigan takes a long, slow breath. She blinks, seemingly in slow motion. Isabela can’t understand any of it, but she tries not to let it rattle her.

“I’m here to complete your audit,” says Morrigan quietly. It seems threatening, though—like a thinly veiled dare.

“My audit?” blurts Isabela. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

Morrigan rolls her eyes. “That is the first of your problems, then.” She clicks her tongue and points over Isabela’s shoulder to where Merrill’s desk is obvious through the glass office doors. “Are you keeping that assistant because she’s actually competent or for sentimental reasons?”

Isabela isn’t prone to blushing, but she feels heat rise in her chest. If she were in some other setting—or even sitting behind _her own desk_ —she might raise her voice, but she doesn’t let her protectiveness of Merrill get the best of her. If there’s one thing she’s learned in the corporate world, it’s when to play it close to the vest.

“Merrill is a fantastic assistant,” she says unequivocally. “Frankly, it doesn’t matter if we’re having an internal audit or not. Everything we do here will hold up under scrutiny.”

At that, Morrigan arches one eyebrow. It’s an expression that Isabela wishes she could make herself, actually, but she’s never learned to raise just one. They eye each other for such a long time Isabela starts to wonder if time has suddenly stopped flowing.

Just as suddenly, everything snaps back into place.

“Very well, then,” says Morrigan. “We’ll begin tomorrow.”

Abruptly, she pushes back from Isabela’s desk and gathers her things—a smart-looking briefcase and a beige trenchcoat. At the threshold, she shakes an umbrella—beads of water spread around her onto the carpet, but the whole thing looks more deliberate than happenstance. And, for reasons unknown, Isabela can’t seem to look away.

“Is there anything I should prepare for you?” asks Isabela.

“Why?” Morrigan retorts. She’s almost laughing. “If you’re as confident as you seem about your operations here, shouldn’t you just be able to continue with business as usual?”

Isabela swallows, readying some kind of response, but before anything useful forms, Morrigan has turned toward the elevators. She’s gone before it even seems _feasible_ —as if she transformed into a bird and flew out the window.

 _At least she’s gone_.

The relief that washes over Isabela is short-lived, though. In fact, the moment she’s alone, she starts to panic.

“Merrill? Merrill, come in here.”

Merrill bobs around the corner, all knees and elbows and good intentions. “Yes?”

“We have a _lot_ of work to do.” 

* * *

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The audit is a confusing nightmare; Isabela finds herself in an equally confusing situation afterward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> E, very much E in this chapter. ;)

* * *

On the morning of the audit, Isabela arrives at work early. She gets there as the last of the night watchmen is leaving. His name is Bruce; he’s exceedingly nice. When Isabela was a new attorney—freshly through her bar examinations and wet behind the ears—she used to arrive early like this all the time. Bruce was the person who gave her a bootleg key to the office so she could catch up on work before the rest of the associates were even out of bed. Today, when she sees him, they smile at each other—not quite friends, but confidants.

He holds the door open for her on her way in. “Still burning the candle at both ends, Ms. Moreau? I thought partners came in at noon and left before supper?” He laughs; his eyes laugh too.

“If I ever become one of those stuffed shirts, I want you to remind me of this conversation,” Isabela says. “Tell me I’m a sellout and it’s time for a reckoning.”

Isabela means it, too. In the years since she was fresh, she has always tried to remember her roots. In her mind, there is no place for pomp—no circumstance under which the law is abandoned in favor of arbitrary superiority.

As she turns the corner and heads down to her office, she smiles at a bank of empty cubicles, remembering the other associates who used to sit there. Some of them moved on to other firms; some stayed… but she still sees them all… it’s doubly true in the faces of the new associates she’s hired every year—everyone seems to have a double.

She spends the next hour preparing silently. She doesn’t even turn on the main bank of lights—just one small bulb on the corner of her desk. In the stillness, she can almost hear the voices of those original cubicle dwellers. She channels their enthusiasm as she pours through depositions and reads contracts line by line.

She’s so absorbed in thought that she doesn’t notice a _someone_ approaching until they’re still as a statue, at the threshold of her office. In fact, at _the someone’s_ voice, she yelps.

“Have you been here all night?” asks Morrigan. She’s doing that one-eyebrow thing again.

Isabela laughs—a nervous reflex. “So what if I have? This is _my_ office.”

Morrigan laughs too.

Isabela silently reminds herself that as a representative of the board, they’re _all_ Morrigan’s offices.

“Since you’re here and I’m here, shall we get going?” asks Morrigan, flicking on the main bank of lights at the door.

Isabela blinks a few times. She’s nervous, but she feels her head nod. She’s always been the type to push past adversity… walk faster in the cold... “No time like the present.”

 

* * *

 

The audit is a _massacre_. Every tiny infraction is, apparently, cause for alarm. By the end of the day, Isabela feels like she’s been hung out to dry. She finds herself in a hotel bar around the corner from her offices. It’s not a place she frequents—it mostly caters to out-of-town-business types—but that makes it feel safer. She doesn’t want to be recognized.

The bartender might wink as Isabela orders her fourth ( _or fifth_ ) drink, but Isabela is too tired to care. On a normal day, she might have that person eating out of the palm of her hand already… she _might_ already have their address or keys… but tonight… “Thank you,” says Isabela. She doesn’t even consider the implications. In fact, she sits absolutely still, completely lost in thought, until she feels someone looming over her left shoulder.

“Yeah?” she snaps, turning fast. Her face almost collides with the smooth, silk blouse of someone who smells _fantastic._

 _Oh god; it’s Morrigan_.

“Fancy meeting you here,” laughs Morrigan.

“Yeah…” Isabela feels like her mouth won’t work. Her tongue suddenly feels like a sponge—utterly inoperable.

“Well? Can I sit?” asks Morrigan, gesturing to the stool next to Isabela.

Isabela nods mutely. Because of the shape of the bar and its level of crowdedness tonight, she has to turn in her seat to accommodate Morrigan; their knees bump as Morrigan sits. Isabela’s inclination is to apologize, but Morrigan doesn’t even blink, so Isabela resists the urge.

“So, what are you doing here?” asks Morrigan. She orders a drink, but Isabela doesn’t hear it happen.

There’s no easy answer, Isabela finds. She’s on the verge of flabbergasted. What _is_ she doing here? She’s avoiding her life… which is currently in shambles because of that _goddamn_ audit.

“I didn’t want to go home yet,” blurts Isabela.

“Do you live near here?” asks Morrigan.

“Not really.”

“Well, I’m staying upstairs,” offers Morrigan.

“Oh.”

“I always stay here when I’m in town, actually,” continues Morrigan.

Isabela barely hears it. She doesn’t care about Morrigan’s hotel accomodations or travel plans or _anything_ after that audit, but—

Suddenly, there’s a hand on Isabela’s knee. _What?_ Surely, it’s not what it seems. It’s alcohol and stress and a mixture of emotions she hasn’t quite processed yet...but…a furtive glance confirms what can’t _possibly_ be true: it’s Morrigan’s hand.

“What’s that?” whispers Isabela. She leans in so she can look in Morrigan’s eyes. Ostensibly, it’s a sexy look—something between a dare and a an invitation—but in reality, Isabela just doesn’t think it’s safe to look _away_.

“Whatever you want it to be,” answers Morrigan quickly. She almost smiles.

Isabela only has a second to decide—keep it professional or blow everything up. Although she’s not averse to random sex, and although Morrigan is _beautiful_ now that she’s actually looking at her, Isabela hesitates. If she does _this_ , it will break an invisible barrier in Isabela’s mind: the thing that has always kept her professional dealings above board, the separation between getting what she wants and getting what she _deserves_.

When Isabela was a much younger woman—a girl, really—she learned that there is almost nothing that a well-placed wink or a blushing smile couldn’t get her. The more she tested these powers, the more they grew and before she knew it, she wielded the promise of sex as a weapon. Only, it’s also a curse—a trap that is easy to fall into and almost impossible to escape.

And yet, even though Isabela knows the dangers, she finds herself following Morrigan into an elevator and through a hotel-room door; the lock clicks audibly, but it feels far away. In fact, she doesn’t even fully register what she’s done until she’s wrapped her hand around the back of Morrigan’s neck and dragged her forward into a bruising kiss.

It’s almost painful, actually. Lips and tongues give way to teeth, but Morrigan whimpers and that’s all Isabela can seem to hear. The reediness of it fills her awareness to the point where she pushes Morrigan backward into the wall—hard. Morrigan’s eyes open with shock for a second as the wind is knocked out of her.

Isabela hesitates… but then Morrigan smiles… and they kiss again—frantic, urgent, pleading... messy and uncoordinated. A voice in Isabela’s mind insists this is dangerous, but it’s drowned out by the sound of her pulse thumping in her ears as Morrigan starts to push back against her. Although there are no words, Isabela knows what it means: something akin to _fuck me_. Oh, how she wishes Morrigan would _say it_ , say _anything_.

For Isabela, words have always been of particular interest. It might be why she decided to become a lawyer in the first place—words have the power to exact _change_ in the legal realm. But right now—in this moment—she can’t remember how to say her own name, let alone anything useful. She growls and shoves her leg between Morrigan’s thighs.

Morrigan whispers something in the midst of a groan—it’s not a word, but it’s _something_. It accompanies a hot, damp sensation against Isabela’s thigh as Morrigan forces her own skirt up.

“Say you want me,” groans Isabela. Her lips are close enough to Morrigan’s to obscure the words, but she knows Morrigan hears her when she gasps.

“I... _want_ you.”

The clothing is too much—too many layers, not enough skin. Isabela’s fingers are clumsy, but she claws at the buttons of Morrigan’s shirt and rips at the zipper of her skirt. It’s rather useless; she almost gives up, but the moment she lets her hands settle back on Morrigan’s waist, Morrigan bites into the soft skin between Isabela’s neck and shoulder and every base instinct she has is ignited. She grabs the two halves of Morrigan’s shirt and rips, without regard for the fabric’s integrity; buttons skitter noisily across the floor, but Isabela doesn’t even turn to look. All she can seem to do is claw at the tattered fabric and rip at the bra underneath.

Morrigan reaches around her own back and unhooks it. It could be construed as obliging, but Isabela thinks it’s just a function of _need_. This entire affair is _desperate_ in a way that Isabela has rarely experienced, but always secretly wanted.

With everything out of the way, Isabela breaks away from another rough kiss to look. _Holy shit_.

“You’re fucking perfect,” breathes Isabela. The words are loud in the otherwise silent hotel room. They seem to bounce off every surface, which makes Isabela pick up her head to look. The bed is just a few feet away—pristine, white sheets beckoning her—but she doesn’t dare move. It seems like even the smallest change could break this delicate bubble they’re in… and, inexplicably, she can’t _bear_ that idea. Instead, she reaches out with her finger and thumb to touch one of Morrigan’s nipples and then rubs her palm over the soft expanse of pale skin.

Morrigan makes a sound that Isabela thinks she heard in a dream: halfway between a whimper and a sigh—high, needy, wanting. Isabela groans, letting her head fall into the crook of Morrigan’s neck.

“Please…” whispers Morrigan suddenly. Her lips suckle at the edge of Isabela’s ear and her teeth graze the lobe.

...and that’s all it takes, before she even knows what’s happening, Isabela has thrown Morrigan backward against the bedspread and is looming over her on her knees, unbuttoning and unbuckling everything she can get her hands on.

Morrigan—this _creature_ —leans back on her elbows, at once demure and enticing, shirt apart, looking wrecked, lips wet and parted. Isabela rises to her full height, and can’t help but gasp; she doesn’t think she’s seen anything quite this captivating in her adult life. Time seems to stop—they stare at each other… a silent standoff in absolutely still air.

...and then it crashes back into motion and Isabela lets herself drop. Morrigan struggles out of her remaining clothes while Isabela drags her out of what she can’t reach fast enough. They roll and grind and kiss until they’re finally free. Isabela feels unhinged. She runs her hands up and down Morrigan’s sides and grabs ahold of one perfect tit. The skin is unbelievably soft, but _none_ of this is gentle.

Morrigan drags her nails against Isabela’s scalp and groans as Isabela leans down to suck a nipple into her mouth. In so doing, she lets her body drop closer to Morrigan’s and instantly feels that wet, hot feeling against her skin again.

“Don’t you dare come like that,” blurts Isabela. She doesn’t know what made her say it; it’s not her usual style, but with Morrigan’s cunt pressed in tight against her thigh, she feels like someone else—someone _unchained_ after a long stint in a prison of her own design.

Morrigan’s eyelids flutter open and she smiles—almost devilish—as she continues to drag herself against Isabela’s skin.

“ _Stop_ it,” Isabela reiterates, biting the nipple in her mouth.

Morrigan’s smile widens, even as she winces. It’s strange, but there’s something lurking behind her eyes. Isabela can’t tell if it’s excitement or fear; maybe it’s _both_. Nevertheless, she _doesn’t_ stop. In fact, she pulls her arms tight around Isabela’s back.

Isabela doesn’t know how—or even why—but she wrenches herself out of Morrigan’s grasp and scrambles backward until she’s standing at the end of the bed. She watches Morrigan’s skin pucker at the sudden loss of heat, but Morrigan does not move. She stays exactly where she was, panting and swallowing. And the look she has says more to Isabela than any number of words could—it’s questioning. Hell, it’s _begging_.

“Back up,” says Isabela, her voice suddenly strong.

Morrigan doesn’t even _try_ to argue. She backs up until she’s leaning against the headboard.

“Spread your legs.”

Again, Morrigan does _exactly_ what she’s told. She doesn’t argue; she doesn’t hesitate; she barely even blinks.

Isabela smiles, feeling powerful, and crawls toward Morrigan on the bed until their lips are just a breath apart. “I’m going to fuck you now,” says Isabela. And then she waits—just a fraction of a second—until Morrigan blinks and nods. It’s almost imperceptible, but it’s there: carte blanche.

Isabela feels a rush of excitement coiling in her gut as she drags her lips down Morrigan’s chest and stomach and pushes her nose through a soft patch of hair. She licks out experimentally—tasting and feeling the soft, slick skin. It’s just a small thing, but Morrigan moans and Isabela chances a glance up, past the curve of her stomach and peaks of her breasts.

 _Beautiful_ ( _and_ _horrifying_ ) is all she can think. Before she can let herself be stunned by what’s happening—before she has a chance to be scared—she sinks one finger into Morrigan’s slit.

Morrigan moans again—a sound so haunting, Isabela doesn’t think she could mimic it if she tried. She flattens her tongue and lets her eyes close. She has an inclination to touch herself at the same time—she normally would—but something about this situation stops her. This whole thing is different, although she can’t understand why. So instead, she focuses all her attention on Morrigan. She opens and closes her lips over every part they can reach and drags her tongue over the clit while her fingers reach and curl into that warm, dark abyss—not so unlike Morrigan herself, really… a mystery… of uncertain depth, but so compelling.

Isabela smiles to herself, even as her mouth works in wide, soft, circles. Morrigan’s legs start to shake and her fingers tangle in Isabela’s hair. And for a few seconds, Isabela thinks she’s never experienced anything so raw and natural in her life… even more so, something that had so _little_ to do with her own body. There’s just Morrigan—the singularity in the midst of Isabela’s universe.

...and before she knows it, Morrigan whines… a high, soft sound and a gasp, myriad micro-contractions, and then _stillness_.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to @aurlana for looking this one over for me. (Sorry/not sorry I made you read porn at work...)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabela wakes up in an unfamiliar place with a horrible hangover. Someone new arrives at Isabela's office and turns out to be more pivotal than Isabela anticipated. Anders has an art opening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new relationship tags added to reflect what's happening in this chapter. It's a bit of a spoiler, but oh well. :)

* * *

In the morning, Isabela wakes with a splitting headache—the variety that belies a hangover strong enough to _kill_ her. Before she even opens her eyes, she knows something is wrong… the sounds are unfamiliar: it’s not the sound of birds outside her bedroom window or a neighbor mowing the lawn. It’s something _different_.

...then she remembers… and all at once, her lazy, eyes-closed-routine melts into something like terror. Nevertheless, she peeks—one eyelid at a time. It’s just as she feared: Morrigan’s hotel room. She turns over quietly—attempts not to even rumple _one_ of the million pillows near her head. ( _Were there this many last night_?) But when she finally sits up, blinking into the bright light of morning, she discovers she’s alone.

“Morrigan? Are you there?” Isabela calls out. It’s _stupid_ , of course. It’s nearly as many words as she said to Morrigan _in total_ last night and it’s not like they’re friendly—they’re practically strangers. A smarter person would already be gathering her things, but she isn’t smart right this second… in fact, she doesn’t even know _who_ she is right now…

No one answers, though. The room is deserted. Isabela isn’t sure if she’s relieved or upset. Although she doesn’t want to admit it—even to herself—she feels slightly abandoned. Isabela is nothing if not resilient, though. She pulls the sheets more tightly around her chest and surveys the room. Everything looks destroyed, if she’s honest with herself. The shades are only partially drawn, a chair is upended in the corner, and a trail of Isabela’s clothes tell the story of a night she won’t soon forget.

...except… what actually _happened_? Despite the shock of arousal that she finds roiling in her guts, she has a poor memory of the details… specifically, the ones that led to _staying the night_. It’s so unlike her. Even as she’s trying to put the pieces together, she catches a glimpse of the clock.

_Oh shit._

She grabs for her things—such as they are—and finds her cellphone.

“Come on, come on,” she says to the ringing in her ear.

“Isabela Moreau’s office,” answers Merrill.

“Oh god; thank god you’re there,” sputters Isabela.

“Creators,” gasps Merrill, “Where are you? I was about to call Detective Rutherford down at the precinct.”

Isabela rolls her eyes. In her opinion, Merrill is too trusting of authority figures.

“Do you remember him?” Merrill rambles, “He’s that one... who came by last month to introduce himself? ...and told us about those alarm systems—”

“Yeah, I remember,” Isabela interrupts. “Listen, I’m a little caught up this morning… is anything going on?”

Merrill is silent for a minute.

“ _Well_?” prompts Isabela.

“It’s just that... _Morrigan_ is in your office again…” The line is muffled; Isabela imagines Merrill covering her mouth with a too-long sleeve.

“What’s she doing there?” asks Isabela. Even as she says it, the irony _almost_ makes her smile: she’s in Morrigan’s hotel room while Morrigan is in her office.

“Waiting for you,” answers Merrill.

“Great…” Isabela runs a hand across her forehead. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

She hangs up.

 

* * *

 

The trek to the office is incredibly unpleasant in yesterday’s clothes, but there isn’t time to go home and change. For all she knows, she might be walking into a _firing_. And although that _should_ be her worst fear, she finds her mind turning to other possibilities: wondering about the empty hotel room and how much of her memory of last night is correct. Upon closer inspection of her memories, she thinks she might have been some kind of _bully_ … it’s something she hasn’t been in years—not since she left Denerim… not since she became Isabela Moreau.

The moment she sees Merrill, she knows how bad she must look. Merrill’s expression is grave.

“I know, I know.” She raises a hand. “I don’t want to hear it. Just take these…” She hands Merrill her briefcase and a stack of files. “...and cancel my meetings for the rest of the afternoon.”

Merrill looks like she wants to argue, but Isabela glares and Merrill seems to think better of it.

Isabela turns toward the glass of her office and puts on her most practiced smile.

“Well, we were just wondering if you were going to grace us with your presence,” says Morrigan.

Isabela is about to make some kind of joke about ‘the royal we’ but it’s then that she realizes they’re not alone. There’s a man with red hair sitting in a peripheral chair—almost reclining. Upon closer inspection, he’s someone Isabela knows.

“Mr. Theirin,” she gulps. “How are you?” She extends her hand and instantly regrets her appearance. Alistair Theirin is one of the named partners in Denerim. He almost never comes out to the Kirkwall office. In fact, his arrival—in concert with the audit—is as auspicious as it is threatening.

“Isabela Moreau.” He stands and takes her hand, smiling gently. “It’s so nice to see you again.”

He’s a very nice man from what she remembers. She only met him twice before she was hired right out of law school. He had less grey in his temples then.

Morrigan takes two steps forward and puts a hand on Alistair’s shoulder. “I called Alistair yesterday and insisted he come down to see all the work you’re doing here,” she says. She’s smiling in a way Isabela finds equally threatening and provocative. In the same moment, Isabela has a flash of memory: Morrigan’s thick, black hair splayed out across the white pillows, head thrown back, mouth open.

Isabela shivers without meaning to.

“I’ve given him a full report, of course,” adds Morrigan.

Isabela is already preparing a string of apologies, but before she can open her mouth to use them, she’s interrupted.

“Just _excellent_ work, Ms. Moreau,” says Alistair. “I haven’t heard Morrigan give anyone such a glowing review in years. She’s a very hard nut to crack.” He laughs and smiles at Morrigan like they have a secret. Isabela doesn’t even venture a guess at what it is, though. She’s so hungover and so confused, she might as well be dreaming.

“Uh, thank you…” she manages.

“I hope you’ll go out with us tonight to celebrate,” Alistair adds. “Just have your assistant call mine this afternoon.” He ushers Morrigan toward the door.

Isabela nods idiotically all the way through agreements and goodbyes and then waits until she’s _absolutely_ sure the elevator has departed. “Merrill?” she calls. “Can you call and get the three of us a reservation for tonight down at that restaurant I like... The Cottage?”

Merrill makes a face and doesn’t reach for the phone.

“Merrill!” snaps Isabela. “The Cottage. _Tonight_.”

“But… Isabela…” Merrill says quietly. “Tonight is Anders’ opening. We RSVP’d weeks ago.”

“Shit,” breathes Isabela. “I’d totally forgotten.” In the span of the last twenty-four hours, she’s basically forgotten everything she ever knew—who she _is_ , even.

“Well, should I call Mr. Theirin’s assistant to see if you can reschedule?” asks Merrill.

“What?” Isabela catches herself on the verge of yelling. “ _No_ … Merrill, when a named partner wants to have dinner with you… you _go_.”

Merrill folds her arms across her chest and frowns.

“Oh come on, Mer…” Isabela rolls her eyes.

“Well, excuse me, but I thought _you_ were the one who always says not to forget your friends… Anders was your first client before either of you were _anybody_ and he’s stuck with you this whole time…” she says haughtily.

She’s right, of course. When Anders was just a starving artist—his name was Erik-something back then—he hired Isabela to handle all his licensing. He took a chance on her, even though she was a first-year associate, because they were friends; they’d met in some dive bar a million years ago. The moment he became _Anders_ —a _sensation_ in the underground art scene—he could have dropped her. Every big firm in the country wanted to sign him, but he stuck with her—for loyalty’s sake.

“Damn it,” Isabela mutters under her breath. She puts her palm over her eyes and thinks. “Okay, Merrill,” she says, looking back up. “Here’s what you’re going to do… call Mr. Theirin’s assistant and explain that one of our ‘ _premier_ clients’—use that phrase exactly—is having a gallery show tonight and that it would be an _honor_ to have him and Morrigan attend it on behalf of the firm.”

Merrill looks hopeful.

“...and then call The Cottage and make reservations for nine-thirty/ten o’clock. Got it?”

Merrill nods and picks up the phone again.

 

* * *

 

It takes Isabela all day to put herself back together. At first she tries to exercise her way out of the hangover. It’s mildly successful for the headache, but not even _vaguely_ helpful to the nausea. She feels seasick all the way home and even manages to _still_ feel queasy after a nap. At least she won’t feel obliged to eat much—these affairs Anders puts together are always full of the worst vegan crap she can imagine.

On her way out the door, she inspects her reflection. She looks _good_ —like a fully functional, not-even-a-little-wrecked person… but something doesn’t feel right, and she’s not entirely sure it’s a result of the liquor or even the nerves of trying to impress a boss. It’s something about last night—something unremembered.

“I’m so glad you could make it,” says Anders. He looks particularly at home in this gallery. It’s an industrial conversion with paint splattered on concrete floors and cracked brick walls. It’s exactly the kind of place that would be _condemned_ if artists hadn’t taken it over… and somehow, that suits him.

Isabela watches the guests pour in off the street, past myriad photographers and onlookers, dressed to the nines. Isabela is like that herself—a deep blue cocktail dress that cost more than the rent she used to pay on her first closet-sized apartment. There was a time when she would have been serving drinks at this party… or sneaking in the back to steal food...

 _How things have changed_.

“Thanks, darling.” Isabela kisses each of Anders’ cheeks and smiles. She’s practiced in _this_ role now.

“Did you have any trouble getting to this side of town?” he asks.

“No, I took the car service,” she says automatically.

“I should have known. I would never have predicted you’d get this boujee, Bel,” he jokes.

She laughs, “ _This_ coming from the, a-four-by-six-foot-painting-costs-six-grand guy.”

They smile—the kind of look that belies how well they know each other. It’s just a minute, but it reminds Isabela that neither of them is the person they were, but that’s not _bad_ —change is a welcome constant in her life.

Anders begins explaining some of the work. She follows him around the periphery of the room, but she’s highly aware that Morrigan and Alistair should be here any minute. She keeps getting distracted, looking over Anders’ shoulders.

“Am I _boring_ you?” he asks, laughing.

“What?” She rolls her eyes. “No… of course not. I’m just waiting for two other people from the firm…” she mumbles.

“Why?”

She considers making up a quick lie _or_ trying to explain it, but it feels exhausting. “It’s a really long story.”

He laughs. “Okay… whatever you say.” Then he grabs her by the shoulders and turns her toward the door. “I bet that’s them.”

It _is_ , of course. He picked them out because they’re easily the best dressed people in the room. Alistair smiles winningly as someone offers him a glass of champagne and then turns to reveal the person on his arm—it’s Morrigan… and she looks like something Isabela has never let herself dream.

“Whoa, are you okay?” asks Anders suddenly.

Isabela blinks. She realizes her mouth is slightly open and closes it with a snap. “Of course,” she says unconvincingly.

“Well, you look like you just saw an oasis in the desert,” laughs Anders. “I mean, he _is_ gorgeous… I’ll give you that…”

Isabela squints. _He_? He who? “Oh… no, god, _no_ … that’s Alistair Theirin… he’s the guy who hired me… it was his dad’s firm before it was his... nepotism and whatnot…” she rambles.

“Then why do you look like that?” Anders raises an eyebrow. In fact, he just raises _one_ —like Morrigan. The repetition makes Isabela’s heart beat out of sync for a second.

“It’s… it’s _her_ …” she whispers through the vice of a smile. She tries to point with her eyes, but it’s only vaguely successful. “The woman with him.”

Anders chances a look. “Oh… yeah, _wow_. Who is she?”

“She’s a member of the board…” answers Isabela. “To be honest, I’m not even sure if she’s an attorney… but she does audits and stuff… she’s auditing _me_ right now, actually…”

“Oh you _wish_ ,” jokes Anders.

Isabela laughs at that; then her hubris gets the better of her. She leans in and whispers, “I don’t have to _wish_.”

Anders’ eyes widen and he laughs. “I should have known… I imagine that audit went _well_ , then?”

Isabela laughs. “No, actually… it was a massacre… but today seems to be much better. Oh, shhh. They’re coming this way.”

Anders straightens.

“Hi, I’m so glad you could make it,” says Isabela. “This is my friend, and our client, Anders.”

“Thank you for coming,” says Anders.

“This is Alistair Theirin, the managing partner in the Denerim branch, and this is Morrigan…” Isabela interrupts herself, laughing, “I guess… just Morrigan? At least the two of you have something in common… you only do first names.”

Morrigan looks at Isabela strangely, but then turns and takes Anders’ hand. “It’s _Theirin_ , actually,” she laughs—high and musical. It’s so like something she did last night, but it _burns_ in Isabela’s ears. She’s a Theirin? What does that even _mean_? For a mad second, she considers asking if they’re cousins, but the way Morrigan has her hand through the crook of Alistair’s arm should have been a sign. The way they spoke to each other in her office this morning… but...

“I… I didn’t realize,” stammers Isabela.

Anders looks at her pityingly—just for a second, but it’s there. But Isabela is nothing if not resilient. She grits her teeth and smiles dazzlingly. It’s not as if it’s the first time she’s had a one night stand with a married person. It doesn’t matter—not to her. No—she’s Isabela Moreau… _now_ … and Isabela is unsinkable.

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabela struggles to recover from the last few days. She discovers her least favorite word: _secondary_.

* * *

The next day is Saturday. Normally, Isabela would spend the entire day catching up on paperwork and readying documents, but today she isn’t in the state of mind to do it. She goes to the gym, but the whole experience is lackluster. She feels _wrong_ … and more than anything else, she feels _tricked_. She shouldn’t care; it was nothing… but she _does_ in some deep, guttural way that she can’t understand.

She wastes most of the day watching dumb TV and reading garbage on the internet. At one point, she falls into a social media hole that she doubts her ability to emerge from unscathed—trolls and their causes… Finally, at quarter to six in the evening, she starts to get stir crazy and goes out. She doesn’t have a destination, but she puts on an outfit she likes—a soft red sweater and her most flattering worn-in jeans—and takes the train downtown.

She walks the streets in relative alacrity—no timetables, no plans—until she happens upon an open-air bar where live music is spilling out onto the sidewalk. She finds a seat at a hightop in the corner. The place is crowded with people and the music is loud, but it feels _better_ ; it feels like community, even though she’s utterly anonymous.

The band’s lead singer is a slender person with lilac hair and a stud in their nose. They’re wearing combat boots that look like the real thing; Isabela imagines the implications of steel toes. They’re really good—the singer. It’s a low voice that has enough gravel to be interesting, but sounds like it’s the result of some training; something in the intonation belies beginnings in opera.

_And when we met, I never really met you._

_You wear so many masks, **tell me** ,_

_What does it take to get you?_

 

What would it take, indeed? ... _for Morrigan_ … Isabela realizes she’s ruminating. Her jaw actually _hurts_ from how many imagined words the muscles of her mouth have formed today. She consciously tries to relax them and takes a sip of her drink, only to discover there’s someone sliding into a chair at her table.

“Oh god, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” says Isabela.

Morrigan smiles. “I thought you might be a little happier to see me than that?”

Isabela glares. “ _Why_?”

“You seemed to really enjoy it last time?”

Isabela almost laughs. “Yeah, well…” but she doesn’t have much to say beyond that. _I didn’t know you were married_ , or _you lied to me_ , both come to mind, but they won’t accomplish anything.

“I’m sorry if you were confused,” says Morrigan easily.

“I wasn’t _confused_ ,” argues Isabela.

“Well… I assumed you knew who I was when we met… people normally _do_ know the higher ups in their own firms…” Morrigan clears her throat, but she doesn’t look derisive; she’s smiling.

Isabela doesn’t have a good argument for that—she really _should_ have known. _Damn it, Merrill._ Nevertheless, she’s angry. It leads her to ask a stupidly inflammatory question: “So do you do this often?” she pauses, “Sleep with the junior partners in the ancillary firms?”

Morrigan rolls her eyes. “No, not _often_ , but Alistair and I have both had secondary partners at times…”

“ _Secondary?”_ The word feels sharp in the back of Isabela’s throat. She doesn’t know _why_ , but she knows she _hates_ it.

“Yes,” answers Morrigan. No explanation, no elaboration, just _yes_.

“That’s _interesting_ ,” says Isabela.

Morrigan shrugs, utterly unfazed.

The music washes over them. That singer is saying something about life being unpredictable. Isabela knows exactly what they mean. Eventually, the set ends and the place grows considerably quieter.

“So, what are you doing here?” asks Isabela.

“Just enjoying the city,” answers Morrigan blithely.

Isabela snorts. “No one _enjoys_ Kirkwall; this place is a dump.”

Morrigan laughs, “I wasn’t going to say anything, but now that you have… what convinced you to stay here?”

“Well… this job, of course…” She shrugs. “And… I had to get out of Denerim… I just… didn’t want to be there anymore…” She lets her voice trail off and hopes Morrigan will let it go. She’s treading into dangerous territory. It’s mad, of course… they’ve already been in the _most_ dangerous of situations together… as recently as two days ago.

“What was in Denerim?” asks Morrigan.

Isabela feels her expression change. “Bad memories.”

Morrigan still looks curious, but when Isabela doesn’t say anything else, she nods.

“So, do you want to get out of here?” asks Morrigan.

Isabela blinks. It’s an invitation similar to the first, but there’s something softer about it.

“I saw a gelato place around the corner,” adds Morrigan.

Isabela doubts her sanity, but she nods and follows Morrigan out onto the sidewalk.

 

“It’s warm here,” comments Morrigan. She takes off a drapey sweater and flops it casually over the top of her bag.

Isabela smiles. “It’s always warm in Kirkwall… except when it isn’t.”

Morrigan laughs, but she’s rolling her eyes too—a surefire sign that she doesn’t think Isabela is _that_ funny. She’s simultaneously alluring and insulting.

“So are you a lawyer?” asks Isabela suddenly.

“Wow, you really _don’t_ know me,” says Morrigan. “No, I’m not an attorney. I’m an efficiency consultant.”

“Wow… so you hated everything about the way I practice law because it’s _inefficient_?”

Morrigan smiles down at the sidewalk. “I think you’re rather _efficient_ , actually.”

Isabela bites her bottom lip. She’s not sure that’s innuendo, but something in her chest leaps at the suggestion that it might be.

“So what’s your deal, then?” asks Isabela.

Morrigan looks up at her. “Do you actually _want_ to talk about work right now?”

“No,” says Isabela.

“Good, neither do I.”

They walk side by side silently for the next block. Their feet strike the pavement in time. Upon inspection, Isabela realizes that she doesn’t know _what_ to say to Morrigan, but she has questions… about a million of them. So she exercises idiotic bravery and asks.

“So… when do you go back to Ferelden?”

“When I’m done here,” answers Morrigan.

“Done with what?”

“Your firm.” Morrigan laughs. “You didn’t think that audit was _for fun_ , did you?”

Isabela shrugs.

“So… a _while_ , probably,” adds Morrigan.

“Is…” Isabela almost stops herself, but her mouth forms the question without her expression permission. “—is _your husband_ staying too?”

Morrigan stops walking and laughs. “We don’t say _husband_ ,” she says. “And _no_. He’s gone home already.”

“Oh.”

“We have a _son_ ,” explains Morrigan plainly. “He can’t be alone that long.”

“You have a son? How old is he?”

“Ten.”

“ _Oh_.”

Morrigan shakes her head and smiles. “Don’t act so surprised. Some people still have children, you know…”

Isabela isn’t sure what that means. Is it a judgment on her own childless lifestyle? While she’s still deciding, something unexpected happens, though. Morrigan reaches out and takes her hand.

“Come on… gelato, remember?” Morrigan smiles and pulls her down the sidewalk.

And, although it seems utterly unlike her, Isabela doesn’t mind at all.

 

The next few hours are spent in the loveliest of conversations. As it turns out, Isabela and Morrigan have a strange number of coincidences. They both grew up as only children of overbearing mothers and kind, but distant, fathers. They both love sad music and books. They both love to learn and know a few words in ancient Tevinter. In fact, although their education is quite different, they seem to speak the same intuitive language.

So, it is with a fair amount of confusion that Isabela says goodbye to Morrigan in the lobby of her hotel.

“See you soon,” says Morrigan, in front of the elevators.

“Oh…” Isabela knows she looks confused, but she’s lost control of her face. Just two days ago, they were in bed together up there and now she’s being dismissed.

“Good night,” says Morrigan. Her body language is so confusing that Isabela doesn’t expect it when she’s pulled in by the collar and kissed soundly in the middle of the lobby. She knows people are whizzing past her on every side, but she’s not unhappy… in fact, heat rushes to her face. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think she actually _cared_ about this.

_It can’t be that…_

When they separate, Morrigan doesn’t go far. “Call me tomorrow.” She hands Isabela a business card and turns toward the elevators. Isabela watches her—hoping for a sign—but she never looks back.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story took a turn on me that I didn't expect. I'm so so so so so excited to share it with all of you. <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's like Morrigan _is_ a drug."
> 
> Isabela starts to realize something is changing... personally? In the world? She can't be sure.

* * *

The next morning, Isabela feels twitchy. She wakes up from some kind of stress-dream wherein she can’t find Morrigan’s number. It’s probably indicative of something dangerous—an inappropriate level of excitement. Luckily, she hasn’t lost anything; the card is on her nightstand. She sits up in bed and cradles the phone in both hands.

 

 **Isabela** : hi. How’s it going?

 

Then she waits… for a little while, nothing happens. She scrolls through some emails and is about to give up when the phone starts buzzing in her hands. It’s Morrigan—she’s _calling_.

“Hello?” Isabela’s voice is rough with sleep.

“Hi, sleepyhead,” says Morrigan. She sounds wide awake and the background noise hints at some public location.

“Where are you?” asks Isabela.

Morrigan laughs. “Nosey, are we?”

“I call that _curious_.”

“I’m at a farmers market in...the gallows?… that park downtown? Do you ever go?” asks Morrigan.

“No, not really,” answers Isabela. “That’s right near my place, though.”

“Then get out of bed,” says Morrigan. There’s something lighter about her tone this morning—something Isabela _really_ likes.

“All right. Give me twenty minutes.”

 

“Hey,” says Morrigan. She shields her eyes from the sun with one hand and waves with the other.

Isabela is almost speechless when she sees Morrigan. She looks like an utterly different person than she did last week… She looks soft and gentle and like she _could_ be someone’s mother—a thought that makes something clench in Isabela’s gut, inexplicably.

“Hi.” Isabela smiles and laughs. She doesn’t know _why_ , but she’s nervous. The expression she wears is one she practiced in the mirror while she brushed her teeth.

“How are you?” asks Morrigan blithely.

“Good… just a little sleepy…” mumbles Isabela. It’s all cursory and idiotic, but she can’t remember how words work. It’s like someone drugged her… like Morrigan _is_ a drug.

“Did you sleep all right?” asks Morrigan. She smiles around the words like they’re alluding to something.

“Perfectly,” Isabela lies. Normally she would have a cute follow-up to that… something like, _I always sleep well when a beautiful woman kisses me goodnight_ ...or… something less lame than that. She can’t even _think_ a good retort. The longer they spend together, the more she thinks Morrigan is her personal kryptonite.

“Well, that’s good…” says Morrigan. She looks bored now, though.

Isabela is desperate to make a good impression so she quickly surveys the scene. That’s when she notices that Morrigan’s arms are full of bags. “Did you buy the whole market?”

Morrigan shrugs. “I guess I did…”

Isabela walks forward until she can look at all the items. “I don’t know, Morrigan… this doesn’t seem very _efficient_ of you…”

Morrigan rolls her eyes. “Come on, let’s get lunch.”

Isabela smiles, but she hasn’t even eaten breakfast yet.

“...or _breakfast_ , considering how sleepy you sounded on the phone,” adds Morrigan, like she’s reading Isabela’s mind.

“Let’s compromise: brunch,” says Isabela.

“Oh, sure.” Morrigan lets one incisor show above her bottom lip. Isabela thinks it might be the nicest—and most terrifying—expression she’s ever seen.

 

The restaurant isn’t busy this morning. In fact, there are only two or three other tables and no one seems to be in a rush. Sunday mornings are beautiful.

“So, what did you want to be when you grew up?” asks Morrigan suddenly.

“Is this an interrogation? I haven’t even ordered yet,” jokes Isabela.

“Most children I know wouldn’t pick corporate attorney as a first choice,” says Morrigan. “Kieran wants to be an astronaut…” She pauses, peering at Isabela over the edge of her coffee cup. “That’s our son.”

Isabela nods. _Our_ is an interesting way to describe it—as if Isabela couldn’t _imply_ that he has another parent. Nevertheless, she begins to picture him without meaning to… dark hair…freckles.

“So… are you an outlier? Did you _always_ imagine yourself at the boardroom table?” asks Morrigan.

“No…” Isabela admits. “I wanted to be a therapist, actually… well… as soon as I was old enough to know what that is. I majored in psychology during college…”

Morrigan laughs aloud. “So now you use that knowledge to intimidate people out of their money? Now _that’s_ efficient.”

Isabela laughs too. “Something like that.”

Morrigan squints at her, suddenly—incredulous and scrutinizing. “Why didn’t you _continue_ with it? _Psychology_.”

“It’s a long story,” says Isabela. She waves her hand in the air between them, as if she’s clearing away the memory.

“We have time,” says Morrigan, raising that one eyebrow again.

Isabela tries to think of a way out of it, but doesn’t have to continue when the server comes over to explain the specials. By the time they’ve ordered, it seems to be forgotten and the meal passes happily—just like yesterday. In fact, it isn’t until they’re back out on the sidewalk—two mimosas later, but no worse for wear—that Morrigan seems to remember.

“So, _psychology_?” she asks.

“It’s um…” Isabela starts to walk slowly, letting her feet scuff the pavement with each step. “It’s kind of personal.”

Morrigan squints, but Isabela can only see it peripherally.

“It’s kind of a…” Isabela looks up at Morrigan and actually _laughs_ , although nothing about this is funny. “...it’s a _horrible_ story. Are you sure you want to hear it?”

Morrigan bites her bottom lip, but nods.

“Okay… come on…” Isabela takes Morrigan’s hand and pulls her in close as they walk. “I’ve always had this idea about communication… it’s better without clothes on… but… any skin to skin contact works.” She squeezes Morrigan’s palm.

“So… I was a really good student…” begins Isabela. “I worked hard and had a good grasp on all the material… I even liked my professors.” She pauses to look at Morrigan out of the corner of her eye. “ _Most_ of them…”

They both laugh.

“...and everything was going really well… until my junior year.” Isabela steels herself, but goes on. She isn’t even sure _why_ , honestly. She’s not in the habit of telling _anyone_ this story—least of all practical strangers… and yet… here she is.

“I met this professor… and he was absolutely brilliant…” Isabela clears her throat. “...but he was married…and he was jealous and controlling and _bad_ for me… he was sort of _predatory_ , now that I think about it…but that didn’t stop me from loving him…”

Morrigan makes a sound. At first, Isabela thinks it’s judgment, but when she looks, Morrigan’s expression has no malice in it; it’s soft and full of compassion. It might be the first time anyone has looked at Isabela like that in her whole life.

An interesting thing about being Isabela—being a person who takes charge and plays the leader—is that people expect you to do it _forever_. In Isabela’s opinion, there is almost nothing as limiting as leading. The expectation is enough to make someone want to fuck up on purpose. But right now… Morrigan is looking at her like she doesn’t _have to_ hold the entire weight of this—of _anything_ , maybe.

“...and so it was fine… until… well, until his wife found out…” adds Isabela. “And all hell broke loose… she told the administration… and… he was afraid he’d lose his job… and I _loved_ him… so instead of sticking up for myself—instead of fighting for my place at the university—I ran.”

“Ran?” asks Morrigan.

“Left the country…” Isabela smiles sadly. “Enrolled at Kirkwall U. and never looked back… new major, new friends, new city… _new Isabela_.”

“Wow,” breathes Morrigan.

“Yeah… I told you it was sad…”

“It _is_ sad…”

“So when people ask me why I stopped with psychology… I usually just tell them I didn’t like it… that it wasn’t my passion after all,” adds Isabela. “But that isn’t true… I just can’t stand the memories...”

Morrigan stops in the middle of the sidewalk and pulls until their arms stretch and Isabela tumbles backward. When they’re looking at each other face to face she manages to smile.

“Thank you so much for telling me that,” she says.

Isabela nods. “Thank _you_.” For one of the first times in her adult life, truth-telling hasn’t left Isabela exposed and raw—she feels _known._

 

When they get to the next block, Isabela realizes they’ve inadvertently walked to her apartment.

“This is me,” she says, pointing at a row of brick walk-ups. “Do you want to come up?”

She expects that Morrigan will say _no_ , but instead, she doesn’t say anything. She just walks past Isabela and waits while she fumbles for her keys.

“I like your place,” says Morrigan inside.

“Thanks, me too.”

Now that the door is shut, Isabela remembers that she has some kind of animal instinct when it comes to Morrigan. More quickly than she can stop herself, she imagines ripping Morrigan’s shirt off and sucking one perfect nipple into her mouth.

“ _Hello_?” laughs Morrigan.

Isabela’s vision snaps up. “What?”

“I asked if I could see the rest of it…” repeats Morrigan.

“Oh… of course…”

Like so many tours, this one ends in the bedroom. In fact, it might as well have _started_ there. It was so clearly an excuse, the whole exercise was rather meaningless, but Isabela doesn’t mind when she finally gets Morrigan out of her clothes. In the midst of it, she finds that ember of _rage_ again… that feeling that scares her _and_ makes her feel alive.

In the aftermath, though, something is utterly different—soft and warm and gentle.

“You’re beautiful,” says Isabela. Her lips are smashed against the skin of Morrigan’s forehead. It’s salty, but she likes it.

Morrigan laughs. “Oh _stop_ ; we’ve already fucked.”

“I mean it,” says Isabela. She pulls and pushes until they’re looking at each other face to face. “You have the loveliest jaw…” she kisses the edge of it. “...and cheeks,” she lets her lips trail to each feature as she talks, “and nose and… lips…” She lingers on those… tongue lazily parting them.

“You’re _ridiculous_ ,” says Morrigan.

“Not _normally_ ,” says Isabela. “It’s you… you’re doing something _horrifying_ to me.”

And although she’s ostensibly joking, Isabela believes it. Something here is _different_ in a way she’s terrified to name. So even as they lie in bed together, talking about books and politics and music… and even as they debate the fabric of things… and even as they start to fall asleep… Isabela _knows_ … something in her is changing—something _fundamental_.

 

* * *

 

 

The next two weeks zoom by. Each day at work, Isabela and Morrigan pretend to detest each other—for _whom_ , Isabela isn’t sure—but it’s getting increasingly difficult to sustain. Whenever Isabela even _looks_ at Morrigan, she feels her pulse speed up; it’s utterly ridiculous. She tells herself it’s nothing; she _tries_ to ignore it, but it just keeps growing.

Every night they find each other in this bar or that one. They joke and laugh and invariably end up in bed… and this, in and of itself, isn’t unusual for Isabela… but what happens _afterward_ is: they spend hours talking and cuddling and even just reading silently side by side. It’s the perfect mixture of social and solitary. Upon closer inspection, Isabela realizes she feels _lucky_.

 

“Are you almost ready?” calls Morrigan one evening. She’s standing in front of a full length mirror in the corner of her hotel room… that same hotel room where all this began.

“Almost,” says Isabela. She’s trying to tame her mess of hair into something appropriate for the opera. She hasn’t been before, but one of their clients gave them the tickets and it promises to be a good networking opportunity.

“No one is going to be looking at _you_ , you know…” says Morrigan. “The house lights will be out.”

Isabela turns, smirking. “That’s what _you_ think; everyone _always_ looks at me.”

Morrigan rolls her eyes. “You’re so vain.”

“I know.”

Isabela crosses the carpet and puts her hands around Morrigan’s waist. “You’re right… they’re not going to be looking at me…” She leans in and kisses Morrigan’s cheek. “...because they’ll be looking at _you_.”

“Oh god, _stop_ …” Morrigan turns back toward the mirror in feigned annoyance, but when she catches Isabela’s reflection, she smiles. “Can I ask you something?”

Isabela rests her chin on Morrigan’s shoulder and nods against it.

“Do you think it’s possible that this is…” Morrigan rolls her eyes, annoyance evident, but Isabela doesn’t think she’s annoyed _at her_. “...something _more_ than attraction and intellectual pursuits?”

Isabela backs up reflexively. _Of course it is_ , says her subconscious. It’s so obvious, she almost _laughs_ , but she’s leery—there are a few things they _never_ talk about… namely that person Morrigan _actually_ lives with… whose name Isabela can’t even let herself _think_.

Nevertheless, she answers, “To me it is.”

Morrigan turns in the circle of Isabela’s arms. “Thank god you said that; I thought I was losing my mind.”

‘ _But what does it mean_?’ screams something in Isabela.

“Ready?” asks Morrigan.

“Of course.”

And just like that, the spell is broken. They smile and laugh and meet everyone they’re supposed to, never more than two steps apart, but there’s a nagging _something_ in Isabela’s guts… something she can only see when she’s not looking at Morrigan directly… and she won’t let Morrigan get far enough away for that tonight.

* * *

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the days since the opera, Isabela feels _new_. Agreements. Promises. Mistakes?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One week before chapter 1 and then catching up to present. From here on out, we forge into unknown timeline territory. ;)

* * *

**Last Week**

 

“Are you getting up?” asks Morrigan sleepily. She pushes the hair out of her eyes; her face is still smashed against one of her pillows.

Isabela is starting to get used to this hotel room. Since the night of the opera, she’s spent every night here—six in total.

“I don’t want to…” complains Isabela. She lets her arm fall over Morrigan’s waist and pulls her backward across the mattress. “Help me think of an excuse…”

Morrigan laughs; her eyes are still closed.

“Could I—” Isabela trails her hand across Morrigan’s stomach and up toward her right breast. “...have some kind of unexpected conflict? I have to stay home and work on…” she kisses the expanse of skin between Morrigan’s neck and shoulder.

“ _Home_?” interrupts Morrigan. She turns in the circle of Isabela’s arms.

Isabela blinks. She thinks she might have just crossed some kind of invisible barrier—a secret line in the sand. “Well…  you know… _here_.”

Morrigan’s mouth twitches, but she doesn’t say anything.

“I mean…” Isabela feels an urge to back up, but she doesn’t. Her arm is still around Morrigan’s body and their faces are just inches apart, but something is definitely different. “I’m just kidding, Morrigan… I’m going to work… _obviously_.”

Morrigan nods.

Isabela waits for something else—some sign that Morrigan thinks her joke is even a _little_ cute—but nothing happens. She disentangles herself from the sheets and drops her feet off the side of the bed. Morrigan makes no move to stop her. About half the time she’s convinced Morrigan doesn’t even _like_ her… but the other half…

           

Twenty minutes later, Isabela is showered and dressed and heading for the door when Morrigan finally says something.

“I can’t think of an _excuse_...but I have a concept.”

“Oh yeah?” asks Isabela.

“Yeah… You need to practice efficiency.” She smiles alluringly and, without saying anything else, drops her robe to the floor.

Isabela swallows.

“Come on,” whispers Morrigan. She blinks and smiles—it’s coy, but powerful. It’s a gentle kind of strength that Isabela is just starting to get used to.

Isabela’s arms move to Morrigan’s sides and her fingers twitch. She craves that alabaster skin… skin that looks so smooth and bruises so easily. But she holds herself back—waits for Morrigan to set the tone.

“You’re beautiful,” breathes Isabela.

Morrigan puts a finger across her lips. “Shh.”

And Isabela does it. She fights every instinct she has—bites back every word and obeys. And even though she’s _ostensibly_ being the aggressor—even though she’s pushing Morrigan backwards into the bedroom, even as she’s grinding her against the mattress, even as she’s biting her neck—she’s following Morrigan. It’s then that she realizes—she’d follow her anywhere. And _that’s_ the scariest realization of all… because Isabela has _never_ been one to follow, but now that she’s started, she doesn’t know how to stop.

* * *

 

**Today**

Isabela arrives at work in a fabulous mood, like she has every morning since the night of the opera. She peers around the corner as soon as she gets off the elevator—Morrigan usually beats her there in the morning.

“Isabela?” calls Merrill. “I have a message for you.”

Isabela stops mid-stride and leans on the edge of Merrill’s desk. “What is it?”

“Morrigan left this for you.” She hands Isabela an envelope.

“Oh, thanks.” Isabela can’t help it; she smiles at the letter… as if it’s an extension of Morrigan herself… as if everything she’s _ever_ touched is imbued with some old magic. “Let me know if you need anything. I’m going to work on a few things in my office.”

Merrill nods to her and she briskly walks through her office doors. She happily sets down her things and settles herself behind the desk before she opens the letter. It’s handwritten.

 

_Isabela,_

_Change of plans. Leaving tomorrow. Meet me at 3pm at the hotel._

_M_

 

Isabela feels the blood drain from her face. It’s mad because she _always_ knew Morrigan would leave eventually. It’s not like this could _last_ —they live on opposite sides of the ocean… and Morrigan has a _family_ … and yet...

Isabela is rather useless for the rest of the day. She tries to write two contracts and fails both times—they’re full of errors and will need to be completely redone tomorrow—but it can’t be helped. She’s imagining the conversation she’s about to have… and it _hurts_. In fact, she misses Morrigan _already_ … like the string that connects them has just been pulled taught… like it will snap the moment Morrigan gets on that plane.

 

The sex is rough... and it’s _satisfying_ … but she can’t shut her brain off. Morrigan is _leaving_ tomorrow… and there’s nothing she can do about it.

In the aftermath, Isabela stares out the window over Morrigan’s head on her chest.

“So… what time is your flight?” asks Isabela

“Hmm?” Morrigan picks up her head, but only barely. She looks so tired. “Six-something?”

Isabela swallows around some mysterious lump in her throat.

“Are you going to _miss_ me?” asks Morrigan, raising her trademark eyebrow.

Something in Isabela screams at her to play coy, but she doesn’t. “ _Yes_. Every day.” It’s utterly inexplicable. She’s spent her whole life holding people at arm’s length—keeping _all_ relationships casual—and yet, the _one time_ casual is a requirement she can’t sustain it…

Morrigan blinks.

“I, uh…” Isabela coughs, sitting up and pushing Morrigan off of her in the process. “I’m not sure how to move forward here, actually…”

“Forward?” parrots Morrigan. She tucks her legs beneath her and cocks her head.

Isabela’s heart sinks. There _is_ no way forward.

“I can’t… I’m not sure…” Isabela interrupts herself three or four times before she settles on the words. “I don’t want this to just _end_ …”

Morrigan looks uncomfortable. She shifts, pulling the sheets more tightly over her chest.

“It’s just… _Morrigan_...” Isabela clears her throat. “These last few weeks… I feel like we’ve started something big.” Isabela tries to judge Morrigan’s reaction. “Something that could be good for us…”

Morrigan’s vision is fixed somewhere between them; she won’t look up.

Isabela bites the inside of her cheek and balls her hands into fists to keep from speaking. Although they haven’t known each other long, she knows waiting is a requirement with Morrigan. Despite her commitment to efficiency in a professional setting, pushing her for an emotional response seems sure to backfire.

“I think so too…” Morrigan finally whispers.

Isabela feels her face flush. The excitement that those little, noncommittal words ignite in her is unreal. It feels dangerous, frankly, but she doesn’t want it to stop. For a month she’s felt sick about this—elated and terrified in equal measure...

And then Morrigan looks up; she smiles like Isabela is the nicest thing she’s ever looked at in her life. It’s like she’s someone utterly new—someone Isabela has only dreamed of; someone who she didn’t believe was even _real_. It’s diametrically opposed to the Morrigan she was two minutes ago, but Isabela _believes_ in it… in her… In fact, Isabela only barely avoids _crying_. There’s something raw and real here—something she hasn’t felt in years.

“Well...” Morrigan swallows audibly. “I think we need to set some parameters... _baselines…_ because… this is an unusual situation.”

Isabela nods nonsensically. She hasn’t the slightest idea what baselines even _are_ —even less-so, how to pick them. She’s never crafted a relationship from scratch _at all_ , let alone a complex one; they usually just _happen_ … or _don’t_ … but she’s willing to try… for Morrigan… for the _idea_ of Morrigan.

“I can’t move,” blurts Morrigan suddenly.

Isabela squints in confusion, as if Morrigan is trying to tell her she’s suddenly paralyzed.

Morrigan rolls her eyes. “ _From Denerim_ , I mean...I have a life… responsibilities…”

 _Oh_. “Of course,” says Isabela.

“I won’t sacrifice my happiness for you,” continues Morrigan, her voice growing stronger. “But I won’t expect you to sacrifice yours for me, either…”

Isabela keeps nodding.

“And... I’m going to continue to have Alistair as my partner… my co-parent…” Morrigan continues. Her tone is like she’s _teaching_ now… as if she’s the arbiter of everything that makes sense and Isabela is some kind of moron. But… when Isabela thinks about it, she _feels_ like a moron in this—utterly without the skills the handle such an arrangement.

 _Shut up_ , she tells herself, nodding vehemently.

“...but that being said, you can be assured that I’ll be committed to you too…” says Morrigan. “To your happiness, to your autonomy… as much as I can… commitment without the cage…”

Isabela smiles. They kiss.

Agreements.

Commitments.

Promises.

...and throughout it all, “ _I understand_ ,” she lies.

* * *

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabela lets Anders in on her secret. He's incredulous. Later, Morrigan has a proposition.

* * *

**One Week Later**

 

“Hey, I feel like it’s been a year,” says Anders.

Isabela smiles. “It’s been exactly two weeks.”

“Yeah… well…” Anders laughs and orders an obscenely expensive bottle of wine. It’s the kind of thing they would have done a decade ago, but skipped out on the bill. These days they pay their debts.

“So what’s going on, Bel?” he asks. The sommelier is pouring fastidiously, but Anders is a big enough deal now that he doesn’t have to watch these types of things. At least, that’s what Isabela _thinks_ he thinks.

“Not much… work… you know…” she lies. Her inner monologue screams that something _amazing_ has happened and she’s someone new… and Morrigan is the reason… but she doesn’t say anything like that.

“Yeah, me too… life’s a bore…” he says, laughing again. Then he leans into the table, wine glass in hand. “So what ever happened with that woman… the one who turned out to be married?”

Isabela mentally recoils; that’s _her_ Morrigan… but she doesn’t let it show.

“Did you fuck her again?” whispers Anders. He’s smirking; it’s clearly just a joke… but… still…

“I… as a matter of fact…” Isabela stumbles over the words, but eventually lands on something _like_ truth. “We’re something… we’re in some kind of relationship...actually...”

Anders’ mouth falls open. He puts his wine glass down deliberately and blinks. “You… _Isabela…_ are in a relationship?”

Isabela rolls her eyes.

“...with a person who already has a partner…” He wipes a hand across his forehead. “Okay, you’ve actually lost your mind, haven’t you?”

Isabela’s brow furrows. “It’s not like I haven’t fucked married people before… God… What are you even _talking_ about?”

“You _hate_ sharing people, Bel,” he cackles. “Dear god, you can’t stand to be _anyone’s_ second-favorite person _ever_ … do you remember Hawke’s birthday party last year?”

Isabela cringes. She remembers.

“They brought that nice girl home and you _had_ to ingratiate yourself to her… dear god… you had her eating out of your hand within two hours…” continues Anders. “And _why_? Because you _could_? You weren’t interested in her in the slightest.”

Isabela rolls her eyes. “I’m not _always_ like that…”

Anders raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Don’t you also insist on being _everyone’s_ best friend? The life of every party? The funniest, sexiest, smartest person in every room?”

Isabela seethes.

“Well, I’m not doing that  _this_ time…” she amends. “Morrigan is different. She’s worth it.”

“Worth _what_?” asks Anders. “Sounds like you’re making some kind of sacrifice…”

“No… it’s not that… that’s not what I meant…” mumbles Isabela. The server comes back to take their order, which slows the progression of this fight-in-progress, but she’s thinking about that word: _sacrifice_. It’s not a thing she wants… it makes it sound like she’s doing Morrigan some kind of _favor_ … but really she feels like _she’s_ the one working hard here… the one reaching for the relationship from a slightly lower vantage point...

Luckily, Anders takes so long in ordering—he’s pretentious these days; he modifies _everything_ —that Isabela thinks of a way to diffuse the situation:

“It’s not even like she’s really _married_ ,” says Isabela. “I mean… they have a kid together… it’s trapping.”

Anders laughs so hard he almost spits wine across the table. “Um, did you _see_ her husband? Dear god… I would kill to get stuck in that trap.”

Isabela seethes. Anders must pick up on it, because he softens.

“Okay, Bel… c’mon…” he says. “You know I’m kidding…”

She folds her arms across her chest.

“I’ve just never known you to be anyone’s second choice… it seems…” he reaches across the table to touch her arm. “It seems like you’re setting yourself up for disappointment.”

Isabela shrugs out of his grasp. “It isn’t like I haven’t been disappointed before… that’s life,” she says. It’s glib, but it seems to do the trick. Anders lets it go and the rest of their dinner is pleasant… but Isabela can’t get that idea out of her head… is she heading for disappointment? What _is_ this, even? And who is _she_? The person who vies for first place in an imagination competition? Or just the one who _loses_ …?

* * *

 

 

“How are you coming with those files Merrill?” asks Isabela, the next day.

Merrill says something from the other room, but Isabela doesn’t really hear her; she’s watching the clock. It’s almost lunchtime in Denerim… which, based on the strangeness of her current situation, means the _only_ time of day she actually gets to talk to Morrigan.

The way she lives for this little piece of time is utterly pathological, as if her survival rests on Morrigan’s shoulders… perfect, sharp, slender shoulders…long dark hair, tangled in Isabela’s fists… parted pink lips... Isabela shivers—considering how quickly this has all happened, she feels like it’s been a long time.

“Merrill? _Today_?” she shouts.

“No need to be in such a _rush_ , Bel,” tuts Merrill. She enters the office with a stack of papers tall enough that her face is partially obscured. Isabela imagines her drowning in a sea of file folders.

“Sorry, Merr… I’m a little stressed,” she admits.

“I know; I know… it’s almost _six_ ,” says Merrill. She winks before scooting back out of the office the way she came. “I’ll lock the front.”

“Thanks, Merr…”

Because of the time difference, Isabela normally ends up talking to Morrigan from her office—she may be someone new with Morrigan, but she’s still a workaholic. Leaving the office before six would be egregious.

 

[ring, ring, ring]

 

Isabela dives for her iPad and flops into her chair more quickly than she knew possible.

“Hi,” Morrigan says.

The picture flickers slightly, then catches up to itself.

“Hey, how are you?” asks Isabela.

They run through the script of ‘ _how’s your day_ ’ and ‘ _what are you up to_?’ It all feels cursory and idiotic to Isabela. She has this weird pull toward talking about everything serious in her life when she’s around Morrigan. It all started that first day… psychology—dreams unfulfilled. And so, when she can’t stand it anymore, she pushes.

“So, when am I going to see you again?” she asks.

“Pfft,” Morrigan laughs. “Every time you say something like that, I just have to laugh. You’re so like Alistair… he’s always pushing me to do _something_.”

Isabela stiffens in her chair. She tries not to let it show in her face, though.

“I have a feeling you’d hate each other,” adds Morrigan.

Isabela goes through the most complex of mental gymnastics in the time it takes Morrigan to push her hair out of her face and smile at the camera. It all comes down to calculation: if Morrigan _wants_ her to hate Alistair, she can do that… what she _can’t_ seem to do is admit that they might be similar. She’s always believed in the uniqueness of humans. Instead of saying any of that, she changes tack.

“I actually think he’s quite nice; he hired me, you’ll remember?” she asks.

Morrigan makes an appraising expression. “You’ve only seen him in a public setting… it’s a little different.” She raises an eyebrow in a way that could be construed as lewd.

Isabela’s throat is a desert. She swallows painfully. Nevertheless, she smiles. “I _do_ tend to compete with people who are too similar.”

Morrigan laughs again and smiles at the camera. “Life isn’t a competition.”

Some bitter internal monologue—some vestige of the person she once was shouts that only failures think that. But Morrigan hasn’t lost at anything—in fact, maybe she’s so far ahead of her competition that she can’t _see_ the herd. Maybe she has _lapped_ her contemporaries.

“Bel, you don’t need to be _jealous_ ,” says Morrigan quietly. She drops her chin against a fist as she speaks. The whole thing is meant to be kind, gentle, soft, but Isabela winces.

“I’m _not_ jealous; I just—” but she doesn’t know what to say.

Morrigan raises that one eyebrow.

“It’s _not_ that I’m jealous,” Isabela begins again. “I’m just hyper-aware that humans are different from each other. We’re all unique.”

“I don’t know that I agree with you—we seem to fit into categories, in my experience,” argues Morrigan. “Everyone is replaceable.”

Isabela doesn’t have a great argument for that either, mainly because she doesn't know what she’s arguing _with_ … the feeling of rejection? The fear of abandonment? The apprehension she feels at caring this much if someone else _leaves_? No one can argue with a feeling… even if she _has_ spent her life trying to delineate the ways in which she’s different from other people… even how she’s different from herself—from who she used to be...so she gives up:

“I suppose…” Isabela acquiesces. They smile at each other, breathing in tandem across hundreds of miles of air. “My question still stands, though. When can I see you?”

Morrigan squints consideringly. “Next month… come visit me?”

“Visit you where?”

“ _Here_. Come see if you can win your fake competition,” she baits. “You _do_ have a surprising amount of machismo for a girl.”

Isabela laughs. “I haven’t been a girl in years—maybe _ever_ … I never much felt like one.”

“Oh yeah? And what does a _girl_ feel like?”

Isabela laughs. “Nothing I can name, I guess. I’d know it if I felt it…”

“All right, you non-girl,” says Morrigan. “I’ve got to go… work to do… efficiency, you know…”

“All right, all right…” says Isabela. “Call me later.”

“Of course.”

* * *

 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabela makes a blunder. Anders tries to help, but Isabela isn't ready for outside intervention.

* * *

Isabela huffs out a short breath— _pants_ , really… she feels like something in heat.

“Good?” asks Morrigan. Well, her pixilated face does… but it feels real to Isabela. It feels like she’s never seen anything so real or raw or _perfect_ in her life.

“Mm.. hum…” she manages. She’s staring at Morrigan’s breasts like they’re vital for her survival—so round and perfect. “My god, you’re perfect.”

Morrigan looks down—a hint of something like embarrassment, but Isabela isn’t sure she’s _capable_ of that emotion… she’s never seen Morrigan be anything but _utterly herself._ She’s at home wherever she is—she commands everything, even when she’s begging.

 _Begging_. That’s what she wants.

“Tell me what you want,” breathes Isabela.

“...or what?”

“Or I won’t be held responsible for what I do next.” Isabela lifts one corner of her mouth and tries to laugh. It’s hard with this little air in her lungs.

Morrigan sighs and rolls her eyes, as if this whole thing is boring her. It’s hard to think of a retort, though, because what _is_ Isabela going to do from this side of the ocean? _Stop_? Not likely.

“Show me something,” Isabela redirects.

Morrigan barks a laugh. “Like what?” Even as she says it, she trails a palm down the side of her face and lets her first two digits pull her bottom lip open. Spit transfers perversely as she licks the pads.

Isabela whimpers. Because of the angle, she can’t see where those fingers were _before_ , but she can guess. “Let me see the rest of you.”

Morrigan pushes the blankets off her lap and shifts onto her knees to reveal pale pink underwear, partially pushed aside and clearly wet.

Isabela swallows. She hasn’t made a move to touch herself yet, but she wants to. She doesn’t know what she’s waiting for, actually, because she knows she’s dripping wet... but every time she’s with Morrigan it’s like this… like she can’t even consider herself comparatively.

“Do—” Morrigan gasps slightly, running her index finger along the edge of those underwear, “do you… like… what you see?” She bites her bottom lip and breathes around it audibly.

“I’d like it better if you stopped teasing,” lies Isabela. She _loves_ this part, actually… the part _between_ … the beginning. It’s possibly because she has such a poor memory for the meat of it. Today proves that more thoroughly than any time before, she thinks.

By the time she gives in and rubs the pads of her index and middle finger over her clit, by the time she hears herself start to moan, by the time she watches Morrigan start to buck and grind against her own palm, by the time they fall apart, she can barely remember where all this began…

“Dear god, you’re amazing,” Isabela breathes in the aftermath.

Morrigan laughs. Her face is partially obscured by a puffy white duvet, but Isabela can see she’s smiling lazily. “I have to go…” she says eventually.

“Already?”

“Well… I guess I can give you ten more minutes…”

Isabela sighs and puts an arm behind her head. She knows she’s in full view this way and that it isn’t her best angle, but she can’t seem to care. For one of the first times in her life, she isn’t hyper-aware of what her body looks like. With Morrigan, she’s someone else.

“I can’t wait to see you…” says Isabela. “Just a couple weeks more…”

“Me too.”

And, although it’s the least likely, least timely, least helpful, least _comprehensible_ thing she’s ever done, Isabela blurts, “Morrigan, I _love_ you.”

 _Silence_.

Isabela sits up, bites the inside of her cheek hard enough that she tastes metal, and pulls her covers over her chest. That feeling of comfort has evaporated—like she’s caught in the beam of a searchlight and suddenly everyone in the world can see every flaw she’s ever tried to hide. At a loss for words, she grits her teeth and waits.

Morrigan straightens and leans forward into the screen. “I love you too.”

In an instant everything feels better _and_ worse. Isabela is _loved_ —someone thinks she’s worth loving—but she’s also upside down with turmoil. Upon closer inspection, she isn’t even sure what love is—doesn’t know how it plays into this particular circumstance. She’s in utterly uncharted territory and there’s no one to blame but herself.

“Thank god you said that,” she laughs flippantly and they go on… like it’s the easiest of days… like everything is _perfect_.

...but Isabela _knows_ a lie when she hears one… 

 

* * *

 

 

“So how does it _work_?” asks Anders, the next night.

He’s sitting on the floor of Isabela’s apartment, legs stretched out under her coffee table, rolling the world’s fattest joint. It reminds her of the past.

“How does _what_ work?” She sits next to him and bumps his shoulder with hers.

“The whole Morrigan thing,” he says. He’s also eating a whole bowl of popcorn, which he crunches noisily near Isabela’s ear as he talks.

“Gross,” she comments. “Um… I don’t really know what you’re asking.”

He rolls his eyes and stops chewing long enough to look at her. “I _mean_ … what are the _rules_? Like… do you call it a relationship? Are you her girlfriend? Does her partner know about it?”

Isabela realizes all at once that she doesn’t know. It scares her a little, in light of what they’ve said now, but she doesn’t let it show. “Well… we’re just taking it a little at a time…”

Anders cocks his head to one side and sneers. “What does _that_ mean?”

Isabela doesn’t actually know, but she’s good at thinking on her feet, so she makes something up. “We’re just trying not to hinder each other with needless questions… we care about each other; isn’t that enough?”

It’s strange, really. This is exactly the kind of thing Morrigan would usually say—something flippant that Isabela finds incomprehensible. So why is Isabela parroting it? She has questions… and she’s too afraid to ask. It _hurts_ , actually… to think about it.

“Are you going to see her sometime?” adds Anders.

Isabela’s subconscious screams, ‘ _Yes. And Alistair...sooner than I’m ready for_ ,’ while another voice screams, ‘ _Shut up.’_

“Give me that,” she says, grabbing the joint out of Anders’ hand before he actually manages to take a drag. She inhales as deep as she can and wills herself not to cough.

 

“You know, Andy… it’s funny…” she says suddenly. It might have been two minutes or thirty; she can’t tell. “I always thought I was so good at asking for what I need… I thought... I was the _best_ at logic and reasoning through things… and being the boss... and even being brave.”

Anders nods.

“But I’m _not_ with her...Morrigan… I’m absolute shit at all of it,” she adds.

“What do you mean?”

“She scares the living shit out of me,” blurts Isabela. “I literally don’t know what she thinks of me or where I stand or what I’m doing most of the time… but… I think I _love_ her.”

Anders’ face crinkles into a barely recognizable expression—a caricature of surprise.

“Or… _something…_ ” amends Isabela. She drops her head into her hands and moans. “I told her I love her. I’m such a fucking idiot.”

Anders pushes her hands out of the way and settles a palm against her cheek. “Isabela… you love someone; that’s good… love is the _best_ emotion…”

“Really? Because it _feels_ like a nightmare…”

He squints. “You’re going to have to explain that.”

But Isabela doesn’t know how. She shakes her head and stares at the floor. “I think I’m too high…”

Anders nods.

“...can we just… talk about something else?” she asks. “Tell me about the good old days… when everything was simple… and we fucked people for fun… and didn’t get all over involved… Tell me about who I was _before…_ ”

... _Before Isabela Moreau_.

* * *

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the happiest Isabela has ever been... _and_ the saddest.

* * *

As soon as Isabela gets Anders into a cab, she calls Morrigan.

“Hey, baby…” She somehow manages to keep her tone neutral—or she _thinks_ she does. She doesn’t want to _sound_ high, for some reason. “What are you up to?”

“Just getting ready for bed…” says Morrigan. “What are you—” Then she’s cut off. Some voices in the background echo. A deep laugh and a higher, musical kind of chuckle—something like a _child_ … that must be Kieran. Isabela swallows against a sudden dryness.

“What was that?” asks Isabela.

“Kieran decided to bring a frog into the house,” she says plainly. “Alistair did not discourage him.”

Isabela laughs, although every time she hears that name her stomach ties itself in knots. She doesn’t _want_ it to—she’s not trying to be like this—it feels like a sickness whose seeds were sown a decade ago… back in college… when she was someone’s second choice… when the entire existence of her relationship depended on secrecy. Back before she was _this_ Isabela…

“Go outside,” says Morrigan, not to _her_. “I’ll come out in a bit.”

Some sounds suggest Morrigan moves into another room. A door closes; the background noise softens.

“Hey… Morrigan?”

“Mm?”

“Does—” Isabela almost loses her nerve, “Does Alistair know about us?”

“Us?”

 _Ouch_.

“Well… that we’ve been… doing… _whatever_ …” Isabela curses herself. She’s usually so much better with words.

“He knows…”

There should be relief at that, but Isabela can’t feel it. “And?”

“And _what_?” Morrigan retorts. She doesn’t sound frustrated, though, she sounds _bored_ , which seems worse.

“Well, what does he _think_ about that?” asks Isabela. She’s almost exasperated.

“He’s fine… he just wants me to be happy,” says Morrigan blithely. “We aren’t really that involved in each other’s lives, frankly.”

 _What does that mean?_ It’s glib and it doesn’t answer her underlying questions: _have you told him we **love** each other? Does he know it’s **serious**_?

“I see,” says Isabela. She swallows a mouthful of thick spit and tries to smile, although Morrigan can’t see her.

Morrigan laughs. “Are you _feeling_ all right?”

“Of course,” lies Isabela, although her mind is racing now with unanswered questions—questions she’s too scared to even think, let alone ask. “It was just kind of a long day…”

“Mmhmm,” says Morrigan. “I’ve told you before that you don’t have to worry about this, you know…”

Isabela wants to scream that she doesn’t even know what _this_ is, but she doesn’t say anything.

“You’re such a great person,” continues Morrigan. “And we’re happy, aren’t we?”

“Yeah… we’re _really_ happy…” and although it seems unlikely, Isabela really _means_ that—it’s the happiest she’s ever been… _and_ the saddest.

“Hey, I’m going to see you in a couple weeks,” says Isabela suddenly.

“I can’t wait,” says Morrigan.

They eventually hang up, but Isabela can’t shake the dread. As she stares up at the ceiling of her bedroom, she feels like she’s watching herself from far away. It could be the fading high, but she’s almost sure it _isn’t_.

  

* * *

 

The next morning, when her head is finally clear, she calls Anders. She’s _sure_ she can think her way out from under this.

“Anders?” asks Isabela. The phone is smashed between her face and shoulder; she knows she sounds funny.

“Yeah? ...are you feeling okay this morning?” he asks.

“Kind of… um… I guess not really,” she stammers.

“Yeah, it’s been a long time since I smoked that much,” he mumbles.

“No…” she snaps. “It’s not that…” Then she remembers how conversations are supposed to work, “I mean… are _you_ feeling all right?”

Anders barks a laugh. “Forget how I feel; you obviously called for something else.”

Isabela smiles to herself. “Do you want to go to Ferelden with me?”

“You know I resist going back there…”

“Yeah, I know… but I’ll bribe you… like a really nice hotel… or… a new suit or... something?” she laughs at herself. “Whatever the fuck you want. Just come.”

Anders makes a skeptical sound. “What, pray-tell, is so horrible that you have to have a chaperone in Ferelden?”

“Nothing… it’s not… _that_ … exactly…”

“Oh god, Bel… does this have to do with your long-distance paramour?” Anders asks. She can’t see him, but Isabela feels like he’s rolling his eyes.

“Not _totally_ …” Isabela lies. “I just need to go to Denerim… to see her… and to get to know her husband...partner... Whatever…”

“For what purpose?”

“I can’t tell.”

“Are you going to fuck him?”

Isabela laughs, but she knows it isn’t convincing. It’s something she’s been thinking about—well, dreading. Is _that_ the expectation? On the other hand, what better way to beat him than to make him _like_ her? Well… _want_ her… She’s fairly sure she doesn’t know _how_ to make people genuinely like her. Sex, she can handle, though—especially with men. It’s _easy_.

“Oh god… Bel…”

“No, I’m not going to fuck him… I just want him to _like_ me—” she’s going to continue explaining, but Anders interrupts her.

“...so that you can _prove_ to Morrigan than you’re trying hard? And if things go south in their relationship after this ingratiation, it _certainly won’t_ be because of you? You’re hoping to shit-stir, Bel… it’s a horrible idea.”

Isabela wants to argue, but Anders keeps talking.

“It’s especially shitty because you claim to _love_ her,” he adds.

“Okay, Anders… I won’t do anything,” says Isabela. It’s a lie, but to no one more than to herself.

 

* * *

 

**Two Weeks Later**

 

“So we’re all set,” says Isabela. Anders and she arrived at the airport earlier than they had to and breezed through security. Now they’re enjoying a cocktail, seated in seats 2A and 2B respectively.

“God, I love first class,” says Anders.

“Yeah, me too… remember when we tricked that flight attendant into upgrading us a million years ago?” asks Isabela. She smiles at the memory.

“Yeah… we were flying to our mother’s funeral… she adopted us when we were  young… and she died because she donated _both_ her kidneys,” he laughs. “Oh my god, that was quite a sob story…”

Isabela snorts. “It also made _no_ sense… good thing the flight attendant didn’t know anything about physiology.”

“Good thing you’re so good at crying on cue,” adds Anders.

They let the laughter fade. Isabela pulls her sweater across her lap and closes her eyes, remembering. They used to get into _so_ much trouble together… back when they were young… before they cared about jobs or politics or… _anyone_ else, really… Even as recently as two months ago, Isabela didn’t care about _other people_ , though… she only cared about herself and her work. But… something is happening now. Something that she didn’t expect. And, unfortunately, she feels _stressed_ by that instead of elated… because… when she’s really honest with herself, she doesn’t know where she stands in this relationship. It’s a quagmire of emotions and declarations, but none of it amounts to anything, because its borders are so poorly defined. Thinking about its eventuation just makes her _sad_ —nothing about this is solid.

“So what are you going to do once we get there?” asks Anders. It breaks Isabela’s reverie.

“Well, get checked in… and then they’re going to meet us for dinner,” says Isabela.

“Both of them?” asks Anders.

“Yeah…”

“Hey… uh…” Anders smirks—a telltale sign that he’s about to say something he thinks is _very_ funny, but probably _isn’t_. “Do you think Alistair needs a new ‘secondary partner’?”

Isabela elbows him in the ribs.

“Oh come on… you’ve already got her… I’ll just keep him _busy_ for you,” says Anders.

“That’s not what we’re here for,” she says imperiously, then laughs. “But if the situation arises, I’ll certainly tag you in.”

           

At the hotel, Isabela finds she’s terribly keyed up. Her chest hurts and she’s shaking slightly. It isn’t the excitement of seeing Morrigan that’s doing it, though, it’s the anxiety of _war_. In some peripheral corner of her mind, she knows it’s mad, but she can’t seem to stop. She’s constructed an entire plan that is utterly illogical and entirely machiavellian. If she could look at it clearly, she would see that there is no end game here. She doesn’t actually _want_ Morrigan to change anything. She doesn’t want her to abandon her responsibilities or, god forbid, her _child_. She just wants _something_ —something intangible that feels a little like reassurance.

...but Isabela can’t see that. In fact, she can’t even see that she’s on the path toward ruin until she imagines the look on Morrigan’s face if she goes through with this… a look Morrigan has never used for her before.

 

“ _What_ are you doing?” asks the Morrigan of Isabela’s imagination.

Isabela rolls her eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m making conversation.”

“Don’t lie to me, Isabela.”

“I’m doing exactly what you wanted me to do, Morrigan,” snaps Isabela. “I’m _meeting_ your partner. I’m playing _nice_.”

“You’re _playing_ all right, but I wouldn’t call any of it nice.”

“Isn’t this what you asked for?” yells Isabela. She finds herself readying for a fight—fists balled at her sides, teeth gritting of their own volition. “You wanted me to meet him… you wanted us to be friends… well, he _likes_ me now. Sue me.”

“You were supposed to _love_ me.”

 

 _No. This has to stop_.

 

“Anders.” Isabela knocks on his hotel room door frantically. He’s right next door, and she could _hear_ him singing in the shower, so she knows he’s in there. “Anders, I need to talk to you right now.”

“You rang?” says Anders, opening the door. His smile dies on his face when he sees Isabela, though. “What’s happening?”

“I’m horrible.”

He laughs. “ _What_?”

“I can’t do this… any of it.” Isabela flops backward onto Anders’ bed and lets her eyes close. “I don’t know what I was thinking; I’m not cut out for this kind of relationship.” A small, scared voice inside insists that she isn’t cut out for _any_ relationship—she ruins everything she touches more than once. “Morrigan is never going to love me.”

“What?” Anders lies on his side next to her and props his head on his hand. “Hasn’t she said she loves you every day for a month?”

“Yes… but she doesn’t _mean_ it…” says Isabela bitterly. “You were right; she won’t ever pick me.”

Isabela isn’t prone to crying; it’s never been her style, but she feels like she _could_ right now. This situation is turning her into someone else.

“That’s not true, Bel… it’s not about picking. I mean, hasn’t she been saying that this whole time? Haven’t _you_ been saying that?”

Isabela nods miserably, but she doesn’t really agree. Saying something aloud and meaning it are two very different things, in her experience.

“At least _talk_ to her about this… give her a chance to respond?”

Isabela shrugs.

“Didn’t you start out this whole adventure with baselines or whatever?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know what they mean,” says Isabela miserably. “Mine were never honest. _I_ need to know where I stand, but I can’t make my mouth form the words… I can’t ask the fucking question.”

“What question?” asks Anders. He’s running his palm over Isabela’s cheek now. She loathes it—to be treated like a fucking child—but she doesn’t know how to stop. She _needs_ and _hates_.

“Why she’s so committed to Alistair and if she will ever be like that to me,” whispers Isabela. She doesn’t realize until the words hit the air that they’re true—the truest thing she’s said in ages. “I mean, she says she loves me, Andy…”

Anders nods gently.

“...but I don’t know how to judge it…” Isabela sniffs. She’s too close to the edge to come back now. She feels the first tears forming in her eyes. “It feels like I’m going to be on the outside looking in forever unless I do something drastic.”

“Drastic?”

“Yeah… like… you know…”

“Oh god, Bel… stop.” Anders pulls and pushes her until her head is resting on his chest. “Fucking him is not going to help.”

Isabela tries to argue, but Anders won’t be interrupted.

“He’ll like you… of course he will— _look at you_ …” Anders continues. “But it won’t be because of who you actually _are_ … it will be because you’re a novelty.”

Isabela sucks in a little breath. _That_ hurts in a way that only the truth can hurt.

“And haven’t you been someone’s novelty enough times to know it wears off?”

“Andy,” Isabela cries, “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of… with _her…_ ”

Anders hugs her tighter.

“If she hasn’t seen it already, she will… I’m just a fucking imposter, Andy…” Isabela lets her vision soften somewhere in the distance of the room… peeling wallpaper… a loose piece of thread in the drapes. “And she’s so smart and kind and interesting and _perfect_ … I’d rather blow it up than have her see me for what I am… I walk around like I own everything… but I _don’t_. I’m— I’m just... I don’t even use my real _name_ , Andy.”

Anders, laughs, although it’s sad. “Neither do I, Bel… and it doesn’t mean anything. We are who we believe we are…”

But that’s the scariest thing of all, because Isabela believes _everything_ she’s just said.

 

They lie there until Anders looks at his watch. “Hey, Bel… we’re going to be late…”

Isabela sits up with effort. It feels like the world is too heavy. “I have to call her…”

“And say what?”

“That I can’t go through with this… it’s _over_.”

* * *

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adaptive reformation.

* * *

It doesn’t take much to burn it all down, Isabela discovers… just a few phrases— _I don’t, I can’t, I won’t_ —and it’s over. Morrigan argues, but not _hard_. That’s what hurts the most of all. Some tiny version of Isabela, who still believes in love, cries silently in her subconscious: ‘fight for me; just this once.’

...but in reality, Isabela doesn’t leave Morrigan anything tangible to fight against...

 

They meet on the sidewalk outside Isabela’s hotel. They’re late for their dinner reservations by an hour already, but this can’t wait. Isabela knows that if they go to that dinner all hell will break loose—she’ll do something she really _can’t_ take back… she’ll be someone else… and at this point, the fear of _that_ person—of herself—is overwhelming.

“I don’t understand _anything_ you’re saying,” says Morrigan. Her voice is calm, but her expression is tense. It belies how confusing this probably is for her—if only she knew how confusing it is for Isabela.

“I’m sorry… I’m just fucked up… I _can’t_ …” says Isabela.

Morrigan shakes her head. She won’t stop looking right into Isabela’s eyes—it’s as unnerving as it is heartbreaking. “Isabela, nothing’s broken yet. I didn’t even know you were unhappy until _right now_ … we just need to re-evaluate.”

“I’m not unhappy… I’m just… this is fucking exhausting,” Isabela bites in her lip hard. The pain doesn’t help, though. “You don’t understand; I _can’t_. Just let me go…” Isabela pleads.

Morrigan shakes her head and takes a step closer across the asphalt.

“Stop.” Isabela puts her palm out and cringes. “I can’t be who you want me to be; I can’t give you what you want.”

“What?” asks Morrigan. “What I _want_ you to be? Do what I want? I don’t want you to be anything… _do_ anything... and even if I did, how could you _possibly_ know that when we’ve never talked about it?”

Isabela covers her face with her hands and growls. None of this even makes sense anymore, but she keeps talking into the skin of her palms. “Because you say it all the time… I’m perfect… I’m great… I’m doing fine… and you expect me to _live up to_ that… well, I can't, Morrigan. I'm not happy like this. It’s asking too much. I don’t even know where I stand with you half the fucking time.

“It’s too much pressure, Morrigan… I’m trying to hold it together for you _and_ me all the time because I _know_ you’re busier than I am… and I _know_ you have responsibilities you can’t get out of… but I need some things too!” Isabela yells. The whole thing starts to feel like an out of body experience. She can’t remember the last time she felt so unhinged.

“ _What_ things?”

 _Silence_.

It’s so reasonable; it’s the completely logical next step in this argument, but Isabela wasn’t expecting it. She’s so ready for a fight that she can’t find it in herself to back down. “If you don’t know, then you’re already proving my point; you don’t give a shit about me,” she yells, all vitriol and idiocy.

Morrigan blinks; time seems to stretch. “I guess you’re right, then.” Her voice is eerily quiet. “I thought you were in this with me… but you aren’t… You want _one_ _person_ to fill every need you’ve ever had… and you want them to _intuit_ what those needs are… let me tell you, Isabela, that’s not possible. It’s societal propaganda.”

Isabela doesn’t know what comes over her… it’s like something snaps in her chest and she’s suddenly not sad anymore—she’s furious.

“Fuck you. You never cared about me at all, did you?” The stillness that follows those words is thick—suffocating—but Isabela forces herself to wait.

“Let’s go inside, Isabela. Let’s talk this through,” suggests Morrigan.

Isabela shakes her head and looks at the ground between them. This hurts, but in some way she likes it better. The pain of isolation is one she knows and it feels _easier_ than the pain of uncertainty.

“Okay…” Morrigan swallows, clears her throat and whispers, “I suppose it _is_ over.” She pulls her coat more tightly around her shoulders and turns away. A small shake implies tears, implies burgeoning regret.

Isabela opens her mouth to call out, but nothing happens. This fear is paralyzing.

_No. Please, no._

 

...but that’s it. It’s over.

 

In the weeks that follow, Isabela has myriad conversations with herself in which she demands explanations and throws tantrums… and even _more_ where she begs for forgiveness… they’re _loud_ in the recesses of her mind. And from all of the mental chatter one theme keeps repeating: “ _all_ _your_ _needs_ ; _one person_ ; _it’s not possible_.”

Of course, Isabela _tries_. She looks for that perfect person in all the _stupidest_ places—willing genitalia seems to be everywhere. If only she could manage to feel it. There was a time when random sex was comforting to her. There was a time when it was even fun… but now it all just feels like retaliation.

Eventually, she gives up—puts her head down and focuses on her work. It’s what she’s always done when situations get tough, really—powered through them. It doesn’t feel even vaguely helpful this time, though. It’s hard to even function in the aftermath. It doesn’t help that Morrigan won’t stop trying to make amends. She calls at first, but Isabela makes it clear that she doesn’t want to be contacted by _never_ picking up the phone and deleting all voicemails. Next, come the emails… but Isabela can’t even bring herself to read them, let alone respond. Every word feels like being stabbed— _especially_ the kind ones.

 

One morning, almost a month after her return to Kirkwall, there’s a knock on the glass of her office door. She looks up from a stack of briefings, bleary-eyed, and blinks.

 _Oh fuck_.

There’s a person standing outside her office—shrugging gently, smiling in a lopsided way—a person she barely knows, but knows all _about_.

“Come in,” she mouths, standing behind the desk. “Mr. Theirin, how are you?” She tries to smile, but her face feels like a mask.

“I’m all right…” He closes the door gently behind him; it barely even makes a sound. It feels like some kind of metaphor for what’s about to happen: a murder so silent that no one even knows Isabela is dead… she’s not discovered until Bruce comes in with his cleaning crew…

Isabela swallows audibly; she’s suddenly sweating.

“I just wanted to touch base,” begins Alistair. “May I sit?”

“Sure.” Isabela gestures to the chairs in front of her desk. For a mad second, she almost offers him her _own_ chair. She feels like she’s outside of her body again—it’s a feeling she’s had a lot lately.

“Um… I’m sorry to ambush you at work; it felt kind of _wrong_ to show up at your house,” says Alistair. He runs a hand through his hair. As Isabela watches him, she realizes he’s _trying_ not to be threatening. She recognizes it from her own repertoire of body language.

“That’s all right; what do you need?” she asks.

“It’s… um… I need you to call her,” he blurts. “If you still… have the inclination, I mean…”

Isabela clenches her jaw. There are so many words here—every unexpressed shouting match is threatening to come out if she relaxes for even a second, so she silently grinds her teeth against the tide of silent syllables.

“She’s sent you about a hundred emails…” adds Alistair.

Isabela’s eyes narrow. _How does he know that?_

“And I’m really trying _not_ to overstep here,” adds Alistair. He smiles self-effacingly. “She just… got to the point where she needed someone to read them before she sent them… This has been _really_ hard on her.”

Isabela thinks embarrassment might actually be fatal. She shrinks into her chair almost imperceptibly. It’s silent for a minute.

Alistair sighs out a big breath and leans forward. The look on his face is so sincere that it almost throws her. Immediately, she starts to run through a mental list of things he could possibly _want_ ; in her experience no one does anything for nothing.

“I just want her to be happy,” he says, unwittingly answering Isabela’s silent question. “And regardless of what you might think, her life is _not_ better without you.”

Isabela feels something in the back of her throat—a choking, squeezing, miserable something. She tries to swallow around it, but finds she can’t. For a split second she thinks she won’t be able to _breathe_ around it either.

“And I _love_ her,” adds Alistair, “so her happiness is important to me. I think we have that in common… don’t we?”

Isabela gasps. It’s audible and Alistair backs up slightly in surprise, but there’s nothing to be done about it. _She’s_ surprised too—at Alistair, at herself, at the situation.

“I’m such an idiot,” she breathes. She isn’t talking to Alistair—she isn’t even talking to herself; the words are involuntary.

Alistair shakes his head and smiles again—that gentle one. “You’re not an idiot; this is all hard stuff.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah… it’s hard to know you’re not the best—that that’s not _a thing_. I’ve spent a lifetime fighting in imaginary battles. I just thought I could hunker down and take the punches… but that takes a toll,” he explains. “Sometimes you have to let yourself be vulnerable… there’s actually a gentle kind of strength in that.”

“A _gentle_ strength?” parrots Isabela. “Feels like a dichotomy.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” he laughs. “But it’s not… and you know who taught me that?”

Isabela shakes her head.

“ _Morrigan_ did.”

 

* * *

 

 

**3 Months Later**

 

“Hey, Bel?” calls Morrigan. She’s grilling outside in the back yard; the summers here in Ferelden are beautiful—all sunshine and warm breezes. Isabela can see her through the kitchen window, but she can barely hear over the sound of Alistair and Kieran chasing each other around.

“Isabela?” Morrigan repeats.

“Yeah?”

“Can you come out here?” Morrigan hardly gets through the words; she’s laughing.

Isabela goes through the door just in time to see Kieran hide behind Morrigan. Alistair, two steps behind, elects to go _through_ her instead of going around. He picks up her around the waist and whirls her sideways; Morrigan shrieks for Kieran’s benefit.

“I thought we agreed not to do this kind of thing while the grill is going,” says Isabela. She can’t stop smiling long enough to see the joke to fruition, though. It’s not like she’s a huge fan of _rules_ , anyway.

“It’s not _my_ fault dad’s like this,” says Kieran.

“Like this?” laughs Alistair. He puts Morrigan down on her toes, but doesn’t let go of her waist right away. “Like _what_?”

“Like a neanderthal,” adds Kieran. He’s rather blunt; it’s one of Isabela’s favorite things about him.

Morrigan tisks, disentangling herself and crossing the lawn to Isabela. “Come on, you’re not putting our best foot forward; you know Isabela only gets to come here a few days at a time—she’s not going to want to come back.”

Isabela laughs gently.

Kieran nods, like he’s been tasked with something important… like _Isabela_ is important intrinsically. Something warm settles in her chest.

Morrigan gestures to the grill suddenly. “Can you handle that?” she asks Alistair.

He nods and pulls Kieran over by the shoulder.

“You know that’s not true,” says Isabela quietly.

Morrigan interlaces her fingers behind Isabela’s neck. “What isn’t?”

“I am always going to want to come back.”

Morrigan smiles. “You promise?”

“As much as I can promise anything.”

 

...and as unlikely as it seems, Isabela means it. For maybe the first time in her life, it’s a promise to herself as much as it is to anyone else—a guarantee about how she’s going to act; a self-imposed trust, a step toward personal evolution. And none of that feels like a construct… it feels like the _truth_.

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this little piece. It turned out rather differently than I thought it would, but sometimes that's a good thing. Isabela and I are both equally surprised, I guess. 
> 
> Coming up: a new (final?) Coffee Shop Universe challenge 'Doctors without Borders' and a new collab project based on [this short](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7359163/chapters/29717376). (And who knows what else!)


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